A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
Two women placed together makes cold weather.
A grandma's name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all